 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
THE CLUMP OF FERN
Here underneath the stile's moss-covered postA little bunch of fern doth thrive and spring,
Hid from the noisy wind and coming frost
Like late-reared young 'neath the wood-pigeon's wing.
I've seen beneath the furze-bush clumps of ling,
So beautiful in pinky knots of bloom,
That made the inmost heart's emotions breathe
A favourite love for the unsocial heath,
That gives man no inviting hopes to come
To fix his dwelling and disturb the scene.
So, in my loneliness of mood, this green
Large clump of crimpled fern-leaves doth bequeath
Like feelings; and wherever wanderers roam
Some little scrap of happiness is seen.
| The Poems of John Clare | |